Better Get a Bucket

Ever since Thanksgiving, I have been stuffing myself sick.

I know this is something people do and talk and write about each year, but usually I don't. I mean sure, I pig out on the holidays themselves, and at related parties. And of course you have to sample while preparing treats, and it would be wasteful not to hoover up the leftovers. But that still usually leaves at least eight or ten days between Thanksgiving and Christmas for me to suck down a green vegetable or two.

This year, though, I managed not to waste those days. I'm not sure why, but I just woke up one morning around December 1st thinking "Fuck it. Bring it on." Did I want a cheeese omelette for breakfast, Johnny asked me? Why yes, that sounds delightful! What should we have for dinner tonight? How about if I make pizza! Would I like another Kahlua sombrero? In fact I believe I would! And isn't mac & cheese traditional this time of year?

Seriously, for the past four weeks I have been inhaling every spare calorie in my vicinity like a bear putting up stores for hibernation. I'm telling you: the cats are scared to linger within reach of my increasingly doughy arms, for fear I'll snatch them up and slather 'em with cheese.

It was fun at first. I ran through lists of Things I'm Not Allowed To Eat, and ate 'em all. Drive-through Wendy's chicken sandwiches with bacon. Chocolate cookies with chocolate chips in them from the honest-to-god bakery. Crackers and cheese for breakfast. Lots of beer (which, okay, is generally allowed, but not generally every single night and occasional afternoon).

After a while, though, all this excess started feeling like a chore. I started dreaming of zucchinis (though not in any filthy-rotten way) and fantasizing about Bobby Sands. Unfortunately, I'd started celebrating so early that my gorge began to rise just as the season was reaching its crescendo. When I wanted nothing more than to lock myself in a sweat lodge with a week's worth of water and a loofah sponge, instead I had a week's work of consumption planned -- Lady Dinners, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Stephen's Day, a Fun Night Out That Was Scheduled For After Christmas Because I Was So Busy Before, and two Football Games (in one of which I was reduced to rooting for the Jets, which was going to require lots of drinking).

I plodded through that last week, enjoying it not at all. Apple pie? I guess so. Seven-layer dip? Okay. Cinnamon rolls? Fine, whatever. Old Thumper? Sure. Although at some point even beer had lost its magic power.

Which is how I wound up stone cold sober last night, watching Eric Mangini try to play Belichick football and fail to pull it off. That last funky-chicken play might have worked, you a-hole, if you hadn't botched it up the first time so everyone down to the last parking lot attendant knew what you were planning. Not that you care. You totally went back to the locker room and, after a quick "sorry you tarnished your legacy" pat for #4, closed yourself in your office and did a little "Patriots aren't going to the playoffs" dance. You know you did, I know you did, and everybody else in the goddamn football universe knows you did. I hope you tore your ACL, you little worm.

And with that, I'm going into Total Health mode. I don't care that there's a few days left till January 1st, and I'm glad not to have football games to worry about. I'm having sour grapes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, every night, I swear to god. At least until the end of April.

Or, no, wait. At least until the end of March?

Dang.

Somebody get me a mint. Make sure it's wafer-thin.

Under-feted

You want to know what's really sad about unpacking Christmas ornaments? Finding them wrapped up in the likes of this:

And yes, that is my bra on the desk next to the newspaper. I'd had enough of it for one day. So?

Anyway, considering that my silence on the matter all season long didn't stop Tedy Bruschi and Vince Wilfork and Adalius Thomas and all the thousand rest of them from getting whacked all season long -- including Matt Cassell's poor father, RIP -- then I think it's okay that I posted this. Right? Go Pats?

Oh, and while we're at it, what the heck: Go Bills! And 'Niners! Tiebreaker! Tiebreaker! Whoohooo!!!

Yes, this is still a Christmas post. You see?

Gettin' My Gary Glitter* On

Guess!

Where!

I'm!

Going!

Tonight!

*No, they don't really play Gary Glitter anymore. Not since he got done for diddling. But it's still the song I hear in my head when my boyds** score a touchdown. 

**Yes, that was a typo, but I think it's hysterical so I'm keeping it. From here on out, the Patriots are my boyds. 

Squawk on, Boyds! 

It Ain't Over Till the Grey Hoodie Swings

Last week was the first time in three years the Patriots played a football game without me on the team. They won anyway, so I guess I wasn't the most crucial player or anything -- but then again, they're tied for first place in the division without Tom Brady or Rodney Harrison, so there's obviously no such thing as a most crucial player.

I mean, besides the coach. Sorry Coach. Oh my lord, I'm heartily sorry, Coach. I'll just be out here running suicides until you feel I've properly atoned...

Anyway, what I'm talking about is this:

I bought it a few weeks into his rookie season (in 2006) because I thought he was going to be good. I mean (and I'm not ashamed to say it, even now), I thought he could conceivably be hall-of-famer good. Those first few weeks, he ran like a Heisman trophy with a jet pack on its back. Sure, he jigged a little, but he was a rookie, with Corey Freakin' Dillon as his mentor. Soon enough, I thought, he was bound to learn to power through.

I always do like a rookie, anyway. They're like unwrapped Christmas presents: they could turn out to be anything. Besides, in a system with so many stars and so much turnover, do you really want to be wearing the same #12 jersey as everybody else (especially, gag, in pink)? Or #18, who played his heart out for us but was only ever slated to be here that single year?

So anyway, I bought #39. And learned that the thing about unwrapping Christmas presents is that sometimes, after you play with them a little bit, they up and break.

His rookie season went extremely well. But the next year they took Corey Dillon away and it turned out Maroney hadn't exactly learned to power through. Not consistently, at any rate. Then he hurt his shoulder, badly enough to need surgery, and he never played consistently again. He hadn't ever gotten hurt before, and it seemed to spook him. A few weeks ago, it started looking like he was actively avoiding potentially dangerous plays on the field -- when he had the ball -- and finally, on October 20th, they cut him. Well, not cut-cut. He does still have that rookie contract, after all. He's on injured reserve. Only everybody's wondering whether he's really hurt.

So I shelved my jersey.

Now, I am notoriously jinxy. I am willing to shoulder (so to speak) at least part of the responsibility for Maroney's jinxed career. For that same reason, I've been hesitant to buy myself a replacement shirt. I thought about going with an old standby -- but oh, lordy, I couldn't take the guilt if anything happened to Tedy Bruschi. Last weekend, watching the game, I thought I might go in for Ellis Hobbs -- he's been around long enough to prove sturdy and everything, yet he's not exactly an everybody's-wearing-his-shirt marquis star -- but no sooner did I have the thought then BAM. He got hurt. On his shoulder, nonetheless. They say he'll be okay, they say he'll play this week against the Colts, but I'm definitely going to leave his #27 shirt alone. I even briefly considered the new kid -- BenJarvus Green-Ellis -- but then I thought: he's got enough weight to carry around with all those extra names, he doesn't need me hanging off his back as well.

But then last night I had a dream. I dreamed that I was riding in the back of a moving pickup truck in the rain, with all wet leaves and everything along the road, and I decided it would be symbolically amusing to toss my Maroney jersey over the side. So I did, and as we drove on, I watched it sort of flatten itself and become one with the leaves and tar.

A few miles later, we stopped at an intersection, and there was a fellow in his front yard with a handsaw, slicing the number off the back of a football helmet. It was a vintage one, with the old logo on it, and the number that he cut off and tossed aside was 40. I asked him why he was doing it, and he said "Fuck him. He's like sixty years old these days. Who needs him?"

I jumped out of the truck and ran back all those miles in the rain, up and down hills, through leaves and everything -- past, for some reason, a display of Chicago Bears jerseys all mounted in hand-over-heart salute -- but when I got back to where I'd dropped Maroney, he was gone.

And I woke up.

There is no way I knew this at the time, but I googled it this morning. Number 40, from 1976-1982, was a fellow by the name of Michael Haynes. He, too, sat out almost an entire season on injured reserve -- after playing in the first six games, just like my boy. I know this has to be the fellow that I dreamed about, because there hasn't been a #40 since. The Patriots retired the number after he took it off. He's a hall of famer, now.

I'll be putting my #39 jersey on again this week. Until Santa Coach says this gift's broken for good, who am I to question the wisdom of his workshop? If nothing else, as long as Maroney isn't on the field, at least the Jinx can't be doing him any harm.

But, um, speaking of Santa Coach... can I stop running these suicides now? Pretty please? I'm really sorry!

Damn.

The Good News Is...

At least I can talk about the Patriots again.

I said nothing last week and they won, so I said nothing this week either.

And this happened...

There's no way that shit was my fault.

30-10. Feh.

Oh, and since I'm breaking my silence and I'm not afraid of jinxes anymore... Well, I can't quite bring myself to say the mean things I was going to say.

But I will say this:

What? What? I said it! What?

I Did It!

 I have been very busy this weekend, putting the finishing touches on something that I can't even begin to talk about, but I can tell you I got it done!

Now comes phase two, which will take twice as long and be at least three times as much work -- but hopefully, when it is finished, I'll be able to tell you what it is.

In the meantime, since I seem to be Jinxy Julia these days, all I'll say about today's matchup is this:

 
(Oh, and that I stole -- and modified -- this image from here)

Whoa, Back Up!

This...

...is not such a terrible thing to have to look at for a few hours on a Sunday afternoon:

Hubba hubba! What bushel have you been hiding your light under all this time?

We'll see how it goes today. The money isn't on those boys to win against the brand-new Jets and their slightly aged pilot, but if #16 at least keeps his head and puts on decent show, I might just go ahead and buy the t-shirt.

(For the record: I'm kidding. I never did buy #12 -- or even #54, for that matter. Too popular. Too following the crowd. The only team jersey I have is that fella on the left there. And what that says about me is that I may be indecisive at times, I may occasionally waste time jitterbugging while looking for an easier way through, but when the chips are really down, watch out, cuz I will go all Corey Dillon on your ass.)

Update:
Patriots 19;Jets 10

Stoopid Patriots

I hope they lose.

What? What? I said it. What?

I hope they lose and get it over with, and we can all moan and cry and everybody else can make fun of us, and then they can just get on with the season and forget all about last year. Until the Superbowl, when they can Avenge.

Unfortunately, they're playing Kansas City. So they won't. Lose, I mean.

Oh well, I guess I hope that they do next week.

Except for, well, next week they play the Jets. And I kind of don't hope that they they manage to lose that game.

And the week after that is Miami, and they damn well better not find a way to screw that up.

And the week after that is a bye week, and after that...

Oh man, here we go again!

Sic

I'm sorry for the small type of what follows, but the format of the poem doesn't work if each line doesn't fit on one line. If you can't read it as is, I've posted the entire thing (with stupid ugly formatting, and without the links) as a comment on this very post...


“I cannot come to camp today,” says Brandon M, “and by the way
“I want more money than I said. The guy I shot at, he's not dead;
“The guys I stomped, they're walking since. So let’s talk dollars, forget sense.”

Georgetown House worked really hard for this homage from the bard
(That’s me this time, not William S. – and how do you like that largesse?)
So she gets an entire verse (except the part on me, of course)

When others said “He’s a mistake” I gave the kid a brand-clean slate.
I thought he knew the chance he’d gotten, I thought he'd stop being rotten.
But I was wrong, others were right: this dog’s still looking for a fight.

LadyScot’s one of the ones who remembers the brawls and guns.
Donna played by private email, bringing up the new five-year deal.
(Joe D. – though he's off the mark – gets credit for the Whinehouse snark)

Rookie holdouts are the norm, but from a punk it’s just bad form.
If you’re that good, let’s see you prove it. We’ve seen you’re* ass, let’s see you move it.
Really, what’s your damage, Heather? I’m sorry, I mean Meriweather…

*not a typo, but a very clever play on words…